John Gardner - October Light

Dancer grinned. He was black as a coal except for the fluorescent green of his T-shirt. He came suddenly alive, as if stepping out on stage. Loose-hipped, graceful, he went over to the wash-stand then back to the door, as if for sheer pleasure in his ease of movement, delight at the swing of the rifle in his arm. It was all so smooth, so animal, you could see it had been carefully rehearsed. His left hand groped out, long-fingered, to touch things as he passed, and sometimes he tipped his dark glasses up to see more clearly. “They been wrong from the beginning, f’the beginning of time,” he said happily, all rolling-eyed darkie. He delivered the line with magnificent style, perfect timing. Peter Wagner watched him in sudden alarm. He was far cleverer than he’d pretended. Dancer continued, theatrical eyebrows lifted: “They thought all our peoples was half-wit dumb sub-humans!”

Santisillia smiled, just a touch aloof. He knew it all by heart; nevertheless, he watched on with critical interest.

“They walked on our necks with they high-f’lutin words and they cibilization, and they believed it so much we believed it ourselves! But that’s over. Done with!”

“Right on!” Santisillia said, widening his eyes in self-mockery, and chuckled.

“The oppressed peoples of the world has arisen, because they tine has come, the tine of rebolution, and the tine of rebolution is Reality and Troof! I said Reality and Troof!” He swung the muzzle of the rifle at them, Santisillia smiling, enjoying the show, though he was part of it — no longer enjoying it as once he had, perhaps; in his heart of hearts perhaps sick of the thing — but enjoying at least the art of it. Dancer bent down to shake his fist under Peter Wagner’s nose. He was smiling with teeth as big as moons, the lenses of his sunglasses like a double vision of the sun’s eclipse, and his theatrical joy was so fierce, apocalyptic, that Peter Wagner’s chest went light and, suspending disbelief, he had the brief conviction that everything Dancer said was exactly so.

“Rebolution!” Dancer yelled. He pitched his voice higher, up and up, like a bright yellow frisby. “Understand what I said? And because you’re about to go down to the hell that the white man’s made up to make the black man tremble, I’m goin tell you the terrible facts, the truth that sets me free, understand — and the truth that’s goin up Chuck’s ass: You was wrong from the beginning, wrong about the whole fuckin universe, man, because I am the universe, and my brothers and sisters! I am reality and we reality and you the transient white debils that shall be exorcized! Hosannah! Reality is change, you understand? And you are a cibilization of tombstones and cathedrals and faggoty min-u-ets. Harpsichords! You are stiffness, understand what I’m telling you? I’m the dialectical method, man. I am the essential nature of bein, existence, ineluctable modality, Jack. I create! Creation and destruction, baby! I am the Everlasting News!” He waved the rifle in one hand and made noises with his mouth. Tch-tch-tch-tch. He ducked and stood looking up, smiling joyfully, aiming the rifle at the corner of the ceiling like a child picking off an imaginary cop. It was as if, through the dark glasses, he was seeing a vision, or acting, splendidly, a character who saw one. He froze in that position, half crouched, supremely impressive though absurd.

Santisillia — smiling, dignified and weary — clapped. Dancer bowed from the waist. Santisillia said gently, like a kindly old teacher: “You see, it seems you were mistaken, Mr. Wagner. You thought Mr. Nit would refuse to fix the engines. We, on the other hand, inclined to think he would, because engines are your friend’s eternity, as Dancer has explained. Your poor Mr. Nit is in a cultural trap, blinded and grasping inside his white man’s bag. You’re victims, it seems — though perhaps I’m mistaken — of unrealistic ideals, inflexible genres.”

“Commies,” Captain Fist hissed. His face bulged and writhed like woodsmoke.

“No, it’s Henri Bergson,” Mr. Goodman whispered.

“All you say has a good deal of truth in it,” Peter Wagner said. He leaned forward a little. “All the same, technological superiority—”

“I know, I know,” Santisillia said, waving it away. “It’s all so incredibly simplistic. But we’re running out of time …”

It was true, Peter Wagner saw. Mr. Nit’s five minutes to fix the engines must be up. Watching Santisillia’s handsome face, feeling Jane’s fear in the hand on his arm, Peter Wagner was of two minds, as if the lobes of his brain were disconnected. Why must they be enemies? Dancer and Santisillia were, heaven knows, no fools: he recognized with a leap of the heart, as when one sees an old friend, their morose ennui, their irritation with repetition. Yet in a matter of minutes, possibly just seconds … He gave his head a little jerk, driving out the wish that the conclusion might be nobler, the finale more dazzling — clearing his mind for the disgusting but necessary split-second action that was required of him by the plot. Below, if all was well, Mr. Nit would be seated on his high wooden stool, ready to bop the six eels on their noses. The charge would fly to the iron of the engines, up the metal bulkheads, across the metal decks. Dancer leaned on a bulkhead now, smoking a cigarette. Santisillia sat, feet planted squarely on the metal floor, machine gun resting in his lap. Peter Wagner sighed.

“I will say this,” Santisillia was saying. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation. And now, if you’ll come out on deck with me—” He got to his feet.

Mr. Goodman leaned forward obediently, but Peter Wagner put his arm in front of him, blocking him. “Why?” he said.

“We must send you on your way, I’m afraid,” Santisillia said. He smiled, apologetic. “To dispose of you here, if we mean to use the boat afterward—” He shrugged.

“Do it later,” Peter Wagner said. His mind raced, obedient to his chest. “You’re right about our problem, our technological inertia, our generic traditionalism. I do want to know if the boat will run.”

Santisillia smiled and shook his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said, “but needless to say, you don’t expect me to.” He put on his dark glasses, withdrawing from humanity like a visiting god. Softly, as if talking to himself, moving helplessly through old and familiar arguments, yet detached and indifferent, in a part of his mind — a professional killer with a deadly flaw, a weakness for language — he said, “How the foolish heart flails to live one moment longer! Mine too, you understand. But here we are, caught in these absurdities, creature against creature, victims of the world’s most ancient rule. It would be pleasant, God knows, to be locked away safe from reality, like a doll in a toychest, a philosopher with his book. But here we are, for whatever reasons, guilty volunteers in the universal slaughter. What use to whine?” He brushed his hand across his forehead and compressed his lips. He continued: “I might have fled away to human goodness like the Eskimo, living in bare wastes where aggression has no use. So might you, of course. I might have crouched like an orphan in the safety of, for instance, a comfortable professorship. But for better or worse, as you see, I’ve made my choice. Not that I mean to defend myself. The bullet hole is no less red for my remorse. But we’re familiar with the cunning of your Captain. Any slip we make will turn the tables in an instant. He’s established the rules; we obey them.” He was silent a moment, as if interested in an answer from the audience. At last he said, “Get up.”

Peter Wagner closed his fingers on Jane’s hand, pulling his arm free.